


The King of Hearts

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Western, Bartender Eileen, Cocky Dean Winchester, Cowboy Castiel (Supernatural), Cowboy Dean Winchester, Cowboy Sam Winchester, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, For My Baby Dean Because He'll Never Get to Have This Kinda Lifestyle, Humor, M/M, Minor Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Old West, Sheriff Castiel, Some angst, Western, Wild West, tombstone - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “What’s the matter, Reverend?” Dean’s lips spread like the traveling spark on a firework wire into a slow, calculating smile. “You look like the deer caught in the headlights of this feast.”“That’s Sheriff Novak to you.”Dean tilts his head back and turns to Sam. Sam doesn’t return the same amused expression, but adds a flighty brow into the mix as he replies, “Nothing like good ole separation of church and town.”





	The King of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> So THIS is what I intended on being my 300th fic until I copped out because I got overwhelmed and really had no sense of direction with it, and had to come back to it. I'm really proud of the final product!

 

**Arizona, 1889**

 

The evening air is rich with Christmas.

Mince pie, plum pudding, fried potatoes, and sliced venison pollinate the dancing noses of adults and children like—those not chasing the Harvelle’s retriever Lucky, who has a far too meaty bone in his mouth.

Welcomed by the Harvelle’s Bill, Ellen, and their grown daughter Jo, the Singer family sit beside the massive cross behind the podium. Karen Singer plucks her husband’s black Stetson from his head for the second time and mats down defiant hairs with her moistened thumbs. Bobby rolls his eyes, but the small smirk on his lips betrays him. The Harvelle husband and wife duo chat busily with Jesse and Cesar Cuevas, the new farmers in town, about a business offer as food distributors for Leahy’s Lot, rather than their business as a couple.

Jody Mills and Donna Hanscum are on the opposite end, closest to the community tree. Joining them for a boisterous, fantasy-laden dinner discussion are daughters Claire, Patience, and Alex—and the Nieves, a Spanish family of four who left Bandera to escape the state’s ignorant, but deadly wrath. Claire, at the age of twelve, sees the world in their eldest child, Kaia: a world less cruel and intolerant. (Unless it involves dairy, because milk, with the exception of ice cream, is the new love-to-hate food group for the young girl.)

A glass chimes, and only about twenty people out of the hundred-some odd crowd turn. Half are parents shushing their children, with the exception of Eileen Leahy, the bartender-turned drink coordinator.

Realizing the service is starting, Deputy Kline removes a mini mince pie from his mouth and sets it behind the pudding. Eileen makes a face and helps herself to a shot of non-alcoholic punch.

“Ladies and gentlemen. If you can all join us for a prayer before we feast.”

About fifty people bow their heads, but he continues: “Jesus, we thank you for the fruits from your splendor—and Leahy’s Lot down the road—just as we thank you for gathering us all together to enjoy such food. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord—”

“Amen!”

The owners of the voices pull the reins on their horses—blacker than the winter sky chasing the town—as they come to an abrupt stop in the open church.

“Evening, gentlemen. Can I help you with something?”

“No, no,” the shorter responds, green eyes gleaming with foreboding mischief, “just passing through.”

The man’s got a firm grip on the Colt Revolver in his right hand, while long white sleeves hiding beneath a gray corduroy vest stay perfectly suspended above his elbows. “I see.”

“I’m Dean,” Green Eyes adds with great pride. “This is my brother Sam.”

Instead of tipping his black hat, Sam tips his fully-stocked brown ammo belt.  It complements the rifle in his left hand.

“Where are you from?”

“Dodge City.”

“That’s a long journey. What brings you to Tombstone? Surely it can’t be Mrs. Tate’s venison.”

 “What’s the matter, Reverend?” Dean’s lips spread like the traveling spark on a firework wire into a slow, calculating smile. “You look like the deer caught in the headlights of this feast.”

“That’s _Sheriff_ Novak to you.”

Dean tilts his head back and turns to Sam. Sam doesn’t return the same amused expression, but adds a flighty brow into the mix as he replies, “Nothing like good ole separation of church and town.”

“The people of my town are sound. They have good values, morals.” The Sheriff twinges a little from biting his tongue, but it’s a futile attempt: “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Morality is overrated anyway.” Audaciously, Dean grabs a venison leg from the buffet table behind him. He turns around, waving it like a one-armed conductor in front of Sheriff Novak and the oogling townspeople before sinking his teeth into it. He nods mid-chew. “Hmmm. Not bad.” Still carrying the leg, he hops back onto his horse and only turns back to wink at him. “See ya around, _Father_.”

~.~

“So I said, ‘Bill, forget the Indians—you’re a tool. You’re knee-deep in the government’s balls now. The government makes the law, and we don’t abide by the law. If anything, you shouldn’t be killing buffalo because they’re telling you to.’ But see, he owed those folks in Kansas for the railway.” Dean takes a long drag from his cigar and folds over his last card. The older, graying men around him groan as he reveals his fourth ace. “Ah. At least he was a good lay,” he continues, tickling smoke into one of the prostitute’s ears as he whispers, “I’ll tell ya, that Louisa never gave him a proper...”

Castiel, approaches him with a steadfast glare, the kind given to a child after their second warning. Dean pulls back and reshuffles the cards. He sizes Castiel, eyes taking a stroll around the park and making a lap, daring to sit on the icy benches of his cobalt eyes.

“Bartender!”

Eileen turns, newly cleaned shot glass in hand, to the far left table upbraiding her. Their heads bowed, and their grins spiked with amusement. Cautiously, she rests her own gaze on the eldest brother, who, judging by the raising of his own drink, is the source of it.

“A shot of whiskey for my dear friend, Father Novak. He’s a little tense.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, signaling to Eileen with an outstretched, Turkey-like hand on his chest. She nods.

Dean doesn’t miss this: “What’re you, mute? Or are you one of the few people around here smart enough to keep their mouth shut? Am I right, Sammy?”

Dean eyes Sam, who’s across the bar, standing by the doorway with his rifle. Like a true guard, his expression remains unchanged, stoic as a hard-boiled egg, when he glances from Dean to Eileen, but lingers a bit on her. Eileen rolls his gaze off her with her own eyes and fixes a drink for seemingly no one but herself.

“Okay, I think it’s time for you to leave as of _yesterday_ ,” Castiel states, moving to grab Dean. Dean makes no attempt to back away. He smirks, even.

“Is that any way to treat your fellow townspeople, Sheriff?”

A chill plays the chopsticks on Castiel’s spine. “What?”

“Sammy over there is the new town crier, and I am in the running to be the new deputy of Tombstone.”

“Wha-where are you gonna live?”

“Jesse and Cesar Cuevas, your new food suppliers, are real fine gentleman. They just loaned us their barn.” Dean sneers at the next line that drips from his whiskey-laden lips in a whisper: “It has a great view of the whole town.”

“Good luck being deputy,” Castiel scoffs, crossing his arms. “We already have a deputy. In fact, I just elected him. And he isn’t leaving anytime soon.”

Dean lifts a brow as the deck of cards in his hand straightens out. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“And why’s that?”

In lieu of responding, he takes another drag from his cigar. Dean lays the first five cards on top of the deck, on the table, face down. He pushes them towards Castiel, save for the first and forth card.

“What is this? What’re—?”

“Turn them over.”

Castiel sighs. He’s won, so he’ll let Dean gave his card tricks. He turns over a Queen of Spades, a King of Hearts, and an Ace of Diamonds.

“Well, you managed to screw up a Flush. You don’t even have them all. You’re missing—”

“Ten of Clubs and Jack of Hearts?”

Castiel looks up to Dean holding the missing cards face out with two careful fingers.

Castiel grinds his jaw as the chill running down his spine turns steaming hot. “This is a risky game you’re playing.”

“Looks like we’ve found something we agree on,” Dean says, setting the rest of the deck down. He leans back so the women surrounding him can each take a piece of his neck. Swarming him just as ardently are the other men in the bar, angling for a rematch at pool and the mechanical bull.

Castiel makes his way out of the bar. Not too fast, as to give Dean the satisfaction. He signs “good luck” to Eileen, who smiles softly, and doesn’t so much as flinch when Sam takes a tiny step towards him out the door.

 

 

“This is madness!” Castiel rages, pacing the small room. “These-these self-absorbed, righteous pricks are here for two weeks, and they act like they’re above everyone—even you and I! I’ll tell you, I... What’s going on? What’re you eating?”

Deputy Kline looks up. He has something brown and sticky smeared all over his panic-stricken face and even swallows a mouthful of it before answering, “Nougat. You want some?”

“Nou—Where did you get it?”

“Sam and Dean. They said they got it passing through Reno. It’s really good.”

“I’m sure they stole it fair and square.” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. How do we take down two grown men in the Wild West?”

“Challenge them to a showdown.”

“Shut up Metatron,” Castiel groans. “We know you like to solve your problems with impromptu shootouts, but not all of us are barbaric.”

Metatron slinks to the floor in his holding cell, muttering, “It was just a suggestion.”

“I don’t know,” Deputy Kline says, shrugging as he takes another hearty bite of his seemingly endless nougat. He lets the saliva-infused concoction swim around in his teeth before continuing, “They seem like okay guys to me. Even if Sam’s packing.”

“Not soon enough,” Castiel retorts. He exhales and glances over at the picture of her on his desk.

He still remembers that day without a hiccup. Her blueberry pie won best in the county—except, when she came home, she had nothing to show for it: Her blue ribbon had been misplaced. After searching for hours, the little candle in Jack’s head caught aflame. He raced back to their room with a shoelace dripping blue ink from Castiel’s study. Before he could scold Jack for getting it on the carpet, she pulled her shoulder-length brown hair back, grabbed the shoelace, and began to tie it like a hairband. Castiel stood there in complete awe, amazed and, in hindsight, grateful he could think of grabbing the compact camera and shooting her beaming smile angled down towards her equally doting six-year-old son.

“I miss her too, Dad.”

Though he’s the spitting image of Castiel, Jack Kline has the mirth and spirit of his mom. It’s often Castiel questions his intentions bringing him into law enforcement. It’s always been Castiel’s drive to honor his late wife that’s kept him invested in the job. But then he remembers Jack’s drive to help people—again, like his mom—and he’s reminded he needs to have a little more faith in himself to make up for the last twelve years.

Castiel clasps his shoulder before releasing another sigh. “What’re we gonna do about this?”

“I mean, Metatron has a point, this _is_ the Wild West, you could challenge them to a shootout.” Jack chews thoughtfully. “Or you could turn the whole town against them somehow. Humiliate them so deeply, their resolve crumbles and they’re left mere shells of the men they once were.”

“Um… okay, buddy. I really have to stop taking you to the theatre.” Castiel pauses. He throws an enthusiastic arm around his son’s shoulders. “You’re a genius!”

~.~

Castiel arrives at Leahy’s Lot at the crack of dawn to see the show. It’s been a while since they’ve had any real entertainment roll into town. He hopes it’ll beguile his new townspeople, who seem as friendly as they are tame. With any luck, this show will bring out a more… lively… side of them.

The sun streaming through the open windows at this time of hour, bathing the tables in warmth and light, gives the place an almost angelic atmosphere. The air’s fresher too, not so oppressed by the stench of cigar. Castiel takes a deep breath and basks in the short-lived moment. Eileen notices, and startles Castiel when she sets a bottle of Jack Daniels on the empty counter.

 _Won’t need it,_ he signs, _save it for the village idiots._

 _You know this costs_ **me** _money too,_ she replies. _You didn’t have to drag Larry into this._

_He’ll survive._

“You know you can talk to me,” she says. “I don’t mind talking.”

Castiel smiles. “Maybe I will have a drink.”

“You got it,” she says as the door opens.

Three men stroll through and take their respective seats. Castiel knows them too well as the Frankenstein’s Jacob, Eldon, and Eli. They’re not big on much but whiskey and raising Hell with anyone who doesn’t share their last name. The only reason Castiel doesn’t throw them in jail is because they don’t warrant anything _that_ serious, and if they did, no one would be able to take care of their eleven-year-old brother Cyrus.

They become engrossed in some form of intelligent conversation before the saloon door closes. That’s when Castiel realizes someone’s been holding the door for them: Sam Winchester, of all people.

He steps to the side and resumes his usual position next to the doorway, gun at his side.

“Hey, Eileen!” Jacob calls when Eileen’s back is turned. He even makes a show out of waving his arms around and snapping his fingers. “Too bad, I was gunna tell ya what a fine piece’a ass ye was!”

“Lookit those broad shoulders!” EIdon chimes.

“And that long, shiny hair!” Eli adds.

Jacob’s laugh sounds like he’s been gargling nicotine for ten years when he cackles: “I bet I’d be able to ride ya from here to Needles!”

Using the table to support him, Castiel lifts himself from his booth, but the footsteps that echo across the wood aren’t his own.

Sam stands in front of their table. It’s hard to determine his expression, since his stubbled jaw is always locked and his hazel eyes always unblinking, but this time, a strand of his shoulder-length brown hair actually moves, so Castiel guesses he’s provoked.

“What’s crackin’ Goldilocks?” Jacob asks, earning chuckles from the two other bears.

“I should be asking you the same question.”

“What’s—?”

Without a second glance, Sam pulls back the hand guard on his rifle and shoots. The sound of the shot drowns out the moans of Jacob, who’s fallen underneath the table, clutching his right, newly bloodied knee.

“Hey, hey!” Castiel yells. “You can’t just go around shooting people!”

Sam turns back in his easy stride towards the counter and replies, “I believe I just did.”

Castiel stands there, guffawing, as Jacob lets out another moan. He snaps his head to Eli and Eldon, who still sit beside him, paralyzed by their own horror. “What?! It’s the Wild West—you’ve never seen a man shot in cold blood before? You have four functioning arms between the two of you, get him to the clinic!”

“I’ll have a Jaeger and a shot of whiskey. Mixed, please.”

Eileen turns back around, unfazed as she faces the glass house of drinks.

For the first time, the bar is quiet as she pours one. But even that is short-lived: “So, what’s your angle?” she scoffs, setting down the odd drink concoction. “You just expect me to applaud you for standing up for me—the poor, battered woman?”

“I just expect a drink,” Sam replies flatly. No heat, no double-meaning.

As if the universe asked for more trouble, Dean walks in. Trailing him is his posse, including Cole Trenton, Bucky Sims, Victor Henriksen, Gordon Walker, and Christian Campbell. None of them so much as make eye contact with anyone—let alone each other—before fanning out amongst one of the larger tables. Dean makes his way to the mechanical bull in the corner of the bar.

Castiel grins. Finally, the show begins.

Dean swings a leg around the bull and, before kicking the thing with the spur of his boot, waves a salute to the men in the bar. They cheer him on while exchanging cash with one another. The shortest time they bet is five seconds, but Dean doesn’t even last that. Not even a second into it, he’s flung from the bull. He falls flat on his bottom as a loud rip tears through the scene, and the room goes quiet again before bursting into laughter. Dean stands up and cranes his head. There’s a giant rip across the ass of his blue jeans.

And best of all, he’s not wearing underwear.

Castiel didn’t plan _that,_ but God, what a great addition to the turmoil. He laughs along with everyone.

Then, he does the unthinkable: Dean rips the fabric until his whole ass is exposed. He turns with his back to the crowd, mooning everyone with triumphant arms that start from his waist and extend up. “Guess who’s bringing back assless chaps?”

The crowd roars even harder, and by afternoon, every man in Tombstone is sporting assless chaps.

Castiel drops his head in his hands.

 

 

“You’re looking a little pale. Can I interest you in a drink?”

“Leave me _alone_ ,” Castiel grits through his teeth.

“C’mon,” Dean urges, nudging his shoulder, “let me at least buy you something to eat.”

“Right, so you can _poison me._ You live on the same farm that makes our food.”

“That means the whole _crop_ would be contaminated. I’d be poisoning this whole bar. Why would I do that?”

Like a volcano, Castiel feels his heat reaching that boiling point. He blurts out: “I don’t know! Why do you do anything? Why did you come here, why did you make friends with every single person in this bar, why did you move in, why are you running for deputy, why-why—? What’s—?” Forcing himself to stop, Castiel releases a deep sigh that, with Dean smoking, makes it look more like smoke after the eruption.

Dean takes one more drag from his cigar and waves for Eileen. Eileen catches his hand in her peripheral and moves to them. “Get this man buffalo ribs with Texas Rye, on me.”

Dean taps his chin and extends his fingers out. Confused, Eileen takes her own right hand and curves it into her chest before turning to Castiel.

 _You owe me for all the seats I had to sanitize today_ , she signs fiercely.

She rounds the corner into the kitchen, where Castiel can hear an even more confused Benny, the chef on site, relaying it back to Eileen as if he’s making sure it’s first time anyone with some culture has rolled into the bar. Even though, granted, it’s a _very_ Western meal.

“I thought you were against the slaughtering of buffalo,” Cas notes.

Dean waves a finger. “I’m against the _law._ Not good food.”

“Why run for the second biggest law position in town then?”

“You’re full of questions, aren’t you?” Dean grins something greasier than the leftover French fries behind the counter—among other things. Night’s fallen fast on the dreary little bar; casting a milky white glow over the splintered island and jagged in its silhouette where Dean’s own interrupts it. It really makes the green in his eyes pop, and the orange of his freckles stand out like grains of sand on a white marble floor. “Tell you what,” he says, taking one last drag from his cigar before putting it out in the ashtray, “answer one question about yourself and I’ll answer two of those questions.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. He wishes he had a cigar or a drink just to clutch onto, because his hands are fidgety. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “Deal.”

Dean reaches into his back pocket and retrieves the same deck of cards from a couple weeks ago. He slides them out of their case, and hands them to Castiel like a Chinese fan, face down, after a few shuffles.

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

Dean gestures at the cards with an eager head. Castiel sighs and takes one.

He draws the same Queen of Spades from two weeks ago.

“Who was she?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, despite his throat taking a swan dive into his stomach. Something about Dean’s expression shifts noticing the small change in Castiel. His face softens and his ever-present grin sinks with it. He still hates Dean, but that makes it a little easier to talk to him.

“Her name was Kelly,” he answers. “She was my wife. Jack’s—Deputy Kline’s—mother. She was beautiful. We met at The Bird Cage Theater down the road. They were performing _The Palace of Truth,_ about an ill-fated princess about to meet even more doom marrying a philandering prince. I was just passing through until one look. That’s all it took. One look from her on that stage. And she broke character. You know, because she was supposed to be unhappy. We had Jack a year later, TB had her seven years after that, and the rest is history.”

“She was the love of your life,” Dean responds, stowing the card with the deck. “The _only_ love of your life.”

His food arriving gives Castiel the perfect excuse to look away.

“Well I’ve certainly had my unfair share of loves and losses,” Dean says. “That’s why I came here. For a fresh start. New faces, new places. I didn’t use to make friends easy until I lost all the ones I had. And until I got restless and moved again.”

“What makes this town different?”

“Hey now, that’s three questions.”

“Humor me.”

“You.”

Castiel’s head perks up at that. The hope in Dean’s eyes rival the skepticism in his. “Me?”

Dean grins. “Hey now, don’t flatter yourself. I mean people like you. This town’s got a lot of heart.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, bringing a messy rib to his mouth, “and a drinking problem.”

“Another reason we fit right in,” Dean retorts, nudging Castiel. Castiel waits to swallow his rib.

“You’re a big toucher, aren’t you?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Unless… you want to.”

Rib still in hand, Castiel pauses on his next bite. Dean has his eyebrows up as reminder of an unclaimed offer. Castiel waves down Eileen.

_To-go bag?_

_Massive one,_ Castiel signs back.

 _Even you, Brutus?_ But there’s a smile on her face.

_For a good lay—any day._

~.~

Like any day, Castiel wakes up to the sun streaming through his window and warming his stiff bones.

Except, it’s not his window. Nor is it his bed, or even his house. And the chicken standing on top of him looks as confused as he _wishes_ he was.

Sitting up, he fumbles for his necessities. He lamely fastens the buttons on his pants and when he grabs his shirt from the other side of the bed, it’s with protest. Not only did the straw bed leave him with a questionable rash—his shirt smells like manure. In fact, the whole _barn_ smells like manure. He briefly meets the wild eye of a Friesian horse in one of the stables and gulps. He’s seen too much.

Castiel soon finds he has bigger worries, though, when he steps outside the barn: He’s met with the equally quizzed faces of the other chicken and cows roaming the well-kept acre of land.

He makes his way around the house, leading to the dirt road back into town. He makes his way to the bar, but it’s no use: It’s dryer than snake’s skin in the desert. Not even Eileen’s standing behind the counter, awaiting her usual hassle from the regulars.

He shakes his head. Either the Day of Judgment came and reaped the good souls in town, or—

“That’s what I’m talking about! Yeah!”

Castiel knows that voice. He follows it to just around the corner of the Sheriff’s office, next to the guillotine—as if that’s not vaguely ominous—where the whole town is gathered around none other than Dean. (Proof alone that Judgment Day hasn’t come to pass.)

He finds Eileen amongst the crowd and taps her shoulder. _Hey, what’s going on?_

“I called.” Sam—the scariest town crier they’ve ever had—is somehow right behind them, hovering over them with big, beady eyes like the McKinkleyville Totem Pole.

“How do you know sign language?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Sam averts his steadfast gaze on Castiel to look at Eileen. Eileen smiles.

The crowd starts dissipating and that’s when Dean, of all faces, approaches him with a smirk. “So glad you could make it to the election. Or, rather, _re-_ election.” He extends his arms out and declares with _way_ too much bravado: “You’re looking at the new deputy.”

Castiel just stands there with a mouth fit to catch flies.

“What? Disappointed it’s not Sheriff?” Dean asks, grin not relenting. “Well, that’s because everyone knows they shoot the Sheriff, but they never shoot the Deputy.”

Castiel still doesn’t budge.

“Hey, it was either this or a shoot-out, but I had a little more humanity in me after we fucked.”

Castiel blinks a few times before he sees his son walking to join him. “Jack… Why did you give up Deputy so easy?”

“It’s not a big loss,” Jack justifies with a smile that instantly takes him back to Kelly. “It was never really for me. I think I’ll take up theatre. They’re bringing back that play mom was in.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “You’re not gonna play the Prince, are you?”

“Of course not,” he reassures. “You have my word.”

Castiel’s not above hugging his fellow man, so he doesn’t hesitate wrapping his arms around his son. “I love you, kid.”

When he pulls back, he’s met by Dean, who tucks something in Castiel’s holster. He pulls it out to see a King of Hearts staring back at him.

“I told you,” Dean says, eyes panning from Castiel’s chest and back up, “this town’s got a lot of heart.”

Then, he lends out his hand. In the palm of it is another card. Ace of Diamonds.

“I see a bright future with you, _Sheriff_ Novak.”

Castiel sighs, but smiles putting his hand in his. “We’ll see about that, Dean Winchester.”

 

 

 


End file.
